


Bought and Sold

by bosspigeon



Series: Miss 101 [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Mentions of Slavery, Minor Character Death, The Ninth Circle (Fallout), Underworld (Fallout), adrian is going to murder every slaver in the capital wasteland with her bare hands, adrian likes charon a lot, also charon sounds like tom waits and no one can tell me otherwise, i like charon a lot, i like this scene a lot, my lw may have a problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9780317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bosspigeon/pseuds/bosspigeon
Summary: The Lone Wanderer dislikes a lot of things-- slavery is certainly at the top of the list. There's all kinds of moral questions to ask herself now, but she supposes, like everything else, she'll figure it out as she goes along.





	

Underworld’s definitely not the worst place Adrian’s been since she left the Vault. If she had to choose, honestly, she’d rather stay there than go back to good ol’ 101. Azrukhal’s a sketchy fuck that keeps trying to pester her into taking some kind of job, but the rest of the ghouls there seem alright. Even if Gob didn't practically beg her to play courier every few weeks, she'd probably make the trip anyway just for the trading and the company.

She's always got a pack jangling with scrap for Winthrop, a shiny new weapon or two for Willow, and Tulip is always happy to see her, and to help her fix her armor. Even better, Doc Barrows gets her patched up for a nice discount so long as he can take the occasional blood or skin sample for testing, and Snowflake does a better job with her hair than any self-named “hairdresser” out in the wasteland. He really knows how to get that wave she likes, makes her feel pretty after weeks of dirt and blood and a pitiful lack of showers and hair products have her feeling greasy and disgusting. Sometimes she runs into Quinn while out traveling, they’ll even stick together in more dangerous areas until a difference in agenda drives them apart again.

It’s a nice place, overall, her home away from home, and she only wishes Winthrop would let her poke around in Cerberus’s circuits and maybe make him less of a dick.

She’s got a room secured at Carol’s for the night and her gear stowed away, and Dogmeat happily rolling around and getting his dog smell all over the sheets. She'd scold him for it if it didn't actually help her sleep better for some reason. Now all that's left is to stop in at the Ninth Circle and toss back a few stiff drinks before staggering off to bed to sleep away three weeks’ worth of wasteland aches.

She gets herself a nice spot at the bar, orders herself some whiskey, and knocks back the whole first glass before Azrukhal starts to ply her with questions. Where she's been, what she's been up to, what bloody shenanigans she's gotten in and out of. His business is information, and her business is keeping other people out of hers. She answers mostly in grunts and monosyllables, in a way sort of faintly amused.

Most people, she thinks, tend to loosen up when full of booze, but she tightens up like a clam. It's a habit she picked up early on, a preference and a survival tactic. Moriarty and his little terminal told her just how dangerous information could be. What was that old saying? Something about loose lips?

Azrukhal’s getting frustrated, she can tell. He's used to everyone in Underworld eating from the palm of his hand. Drink up and tell ol’ Uncle Azrukhal what's wrong, but she knows his type. She’s splattered his type’s brains across multiple surfaces in multiple ways.

“You know,” he says, smirking a little to cover the way his hairless brow ridge is twitching, “you'd get along well with an… associate of mine. The conversation would be  _ scintillating _ , I'm sure.” He leans on the bar, palms flat and gnarled fingers spread, trying to look as harmless as possible.

She just shrugs, knocks back another finger of whiskey and gestures for another. She doesn't ask for elaboration. Knows he'll tell her anyway.

“You may have met him already,” he continues, nodding towards the door. She glances back, meeting the sharp eyes of the towering ghoul in the corner, the Ninth Circle’s silent bouncer. She'd spoken to him once or twice, or attempted it, the first time she'd stumbled into Underworld and was looking for directions. He'd bitten out no more than a sharp, terse “Talk to Azrukhal” in a deep rough voice that sent shivers down her spine.

“Yeah. Doesn't talk much,” she admits with the barest edge of a wry smile. “What's his story?”

The shady barkeep’s shrewd eyes brighten, now that he seems to have piqued her interest. She doesn't bother to tell him that  _ he _ hasn't, his employee has. “That's Charon. Let's just say... well, he's a loyal employee. Don't mess with me, and he won't mess with you.”

She arches her brows, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “A loyal employee? To you?” She can't keep the faint edge of disdain out of her voice, and to be honest, doesn't care to. Azrukhal just laughs, and the smug nature makes her want to slug him for some reason. He chortles unpleasantly.

“You see, Charon grew up around a very interesting group of individuals. They... well, I guess you could say that they brainwashed him. He is absolutely loyal to whomever holds his contract. Unfailing, unflinching, until the day that employment ends.Don't get me wrong, I have no doubt that he holds no end of animosity towards me. But so long as he is my employee, he is as gentle as a teddy bear.”

Adrian feels bile rise in the back of her throat, fists clenching around her chipped glass. She's not even drunk, but her head starts to swim, vision hazing red. There's a flash behind her eyes of Moriarty’s slimy sneer, blood splattering metal walls and dry sand both, tears squeezing from the corners of wide, young eyes. “So he's your slave,” she grinds out, leveling him with a burning scowl.

Azrukhal makes a rough, affronted sound and places a hand over his heart, but there's a smirk playing across his ravaged lips. “No he is not. Ma'am, you insult me. I do not believe in slavery. It is an abomination.”

Even the denial makes her skin crawl, spine tightening with the urge to wrap her hands around the ghoul’s radiation-scarred throat and  _ squeeze _ .

Azrukhal goes on, smiling condescendingly, as if explaining something very adult to a young child. “I am a firm believer in personal choice. To force another person into bondage is unthinkable. Chains are earned, never forced. Charon made some choices that landed him in my employ. The matters of our contract is between him and I -- no one else.”

Her fingers tighten on her drink, she can see her knuckles going white, the murky amber liquid trembling inside, and the brittle glass creaks just a bit. “Sounds like slavery to me,” she whispers, little more than a growl. Her skin feels too hot, too tight, chest clenching. She looks back over her shoulder. Charon stands there like he's made of stone, but when his eyes catch hers looking, they  _ burn _ .

“I'll buy his contract from you,” she blurts before she can stop herself, slapping one leather-gloved hand down on the sticky countertop. “Name your price.”

Azrukhal’s hairless brows shoot upwards, and an unpleasant little sneer curls his thin mouth. "Now why would I sell his contract at all, much less to a scruffy wastelander?” he asks, sweet and sly, like honey and arsenic. “He is a highly valuable asset to me and to the Ninth Circle. You'd have to make quite the offer for me to even consider. Now, I have a deal I could offer, but--”

“A thousand caps,” she growls, “Up front, no gimmicks, no deals.”

He starts to speak, looking somewhere between incredulous and interested, and before he can, she hoists her hefty patchwork backpack onto the counter and roots around before coming up with a crumpled paper bag. It hits the countertop with a series of clanks, and Azrukhal’s murky eyes light up.

“Take it or leave it,” she says roughly, a sick feeling clawing at her stomach. “I doubt anyone else walks in here with this many caps just weighing ‘em down.”

“You're not wrong, miss,” he says, and she knows he's already counting the caps in his head. “You are not wrong…”

“I'm waiting,” she says with a bitter scowl, and she reaches for the bag, but he snatches it up before she can, and a slip of battered parchment flutters to the countertop in its stead.

“I… suppose this could work…” he says with a smile. He opens the bag, eyes the caps jangling inside. “Yes. Yes... here's the contract. And I'll take my payment in full.”

She takes the contract gingerly, almost afraid it'll fall apart in her hands. The writing is small, neat little lines that burn into her eyes. That say she  _ owns _ a person.

“I'll give you the pleasure of informing Charon yourself,” Azrukhal says, but he's not even looking at her anymore, too busy weighing the caps and shuffling back towards the wall safe behind the bar.

She pushes herself out of her seat and towards the ghoul haunting the corner of the bar, her head still sort of swimming with the shock of her own impulsiveness. But it doesn't matter, it's done, and she's not about to give this little scrap of paper back to Azrukhal for all the caps in the world.

The towering ghoul hardly looks at her when she approaches, and this close she's a bit miffed to see she's only about eye level with his chest. But that's not the issue. She opens her mouth, but before she can speak, he's cut her off with a rough growl. “Talk to Azrukhal,” he tells her, and she wonders if that's all he knows how to say.

“Already did,” she growls right back, forcing herself to meet his eyes. She holds up the paper, watches something in his stiff expression change, twist, then smooth out as much as a ghoul’s face can.

“You purchased my contract from Ahzrukhal?” he asks.

Adrian nods, feels heat in her cheeks under his scrutiny, but she purses her lips and shoves it aside. “Yeah, I did.”

Hairless brows shift ever so slightly upwards. She feels like she's under a microscope, so she squares her shoulders, tilts her chin. He ponders for a moment, then speaks. “So I am no longer in his service. That is good to know.”

Again, he doesn't wait for her attempt to speak, just looks towards the bar, towards Azrukhal. “Please, wait here. I must take care of something.” He breezes past her, doesn't seem to hear her little “Yeah, okay.” When he hits the bar, Azrukhal is smiling, all winsome sleaze.

“Ahzrukhal,” he rumbles, and the back of Adrian’s neck tingles. “I am told that I am no longer in your service.”

Azrukhal smiles glibly, “That's right, Charon. Have you come to say goodbye?”

Charon doesn't respond, simply pulls the shotgun slung across his back out of its holster and takes aim. Azrukhal doesn't even have time to react before the whole bar is ringing with the gunshot, and there's a hole in his torso. He slumps to the ground, dead, and Charon holsters his gun again.

He trots back to her like he didn't just blow a hole through his former employer, and she chokes out a weak, “What the  _ fuck _ ?”

“Azrukhal was an evil bastard,” Charon rumbles by way of explanation. “So long as he held my contract, I was honor bound to do as he commanded.”

She snorts just a little, more out of surprise than genuine mirth. “So, what, is that what's gonna happen to me soon as I don't have your contract anymore?”

Charon’s face in unreadable, impassive. But his pale eyes are intense and piercing. “We shall see,” he says, staring her down.

There's a tingle in her spine, just a touch of fear. But she stomps it down and straightens up. “Yeah, well, I'm ready to call it a night. You got somewhere to sleep around here, right?” She waits for a grunt of affirmation. “Good. I'll pick you up in the morning and we'll head out.”

She heads back to Carol’s without another word, where Dogmeat greets her with slobbery kisses to the face. She settles into bed with the mutt sprawled across her feet and is, thankfully, dozing off before she has a chance to overthink.

When she leaves Underworld in the morning, it's with a mild hangover, her faithful hound, and a silent monolith of a ghoul on her heels.

**Author's Note:**

> here comes a special boy!!! i love charon and i love how he and my lw interact, so here's hoping i can manage to post some other fun tidbits surrounding their adventures later on~


End file.
